


Just As You Are

by 221Bombastic, Mytommyboy14



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Feels, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Parentlock, Pre and Post Reichenbach, Reichenbach Angst, Reichenbach Feels, Sherlock Holmes Returns after Reichenbach
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-12-25
Updated: 2014-09-27
Packaged: 2018-01-06 00:23:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,752
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1100287
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/221Bombastic/pseuds/221Bombastic, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mytommyboy14/pseuds/Mytommyboy14
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Kidnappings, heists, criminals, violence, murders, and gruesome injuries are NOT practical events in parenting, boys! Many plot twists in this parentlock fanfic written with my wonderful friend mytommyboy14</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A Year Gone By

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you guise like this! IT HAS NOT BEEN PROOFREAD OR BRIT-PICKED YET IF ANYONE WOULD LIKE TO HELP COMMENT BELOW TYSM. In this story, Sherlock and John are married. Sherlock has been back from the Fall five years, so his character has changed a bit. Its very fluffy, and Sherlock is only his usual self when on a case. If you don't like him as a loving husband and father then sorry!

John smiled down at the beautiful baby in his arms. "I love you Hamish." he cooed.

 

Thin but muscular pale arms wrapped themselves around John's waist.

"Happy birthday, Hamish." Sherlock said as he kissed John's neck.

 

"I can't believe he's already one year old." John said. "Seems like yesterday we brought him home."

 

"Yes it does." Sherlock murmured, stroking back his husband’s tousled blonde locks.

 

 Hamish smiled and giggled happily, wiggling his plump arms in the air.

 

"Aw, does someone like all the attention they’re getting?" John said with a grin.

 

Sherlock glanced up and saw how late it was. As if on cue,  Hamish yawned and blinked his icy blue eyes sleepily.

 

 "I think it's time for Hamish to go to bed." Sherlock muttered while taking him out of John's arms and smiled. "C'mon. Let's go put your pajamas on." John grinned as he watched them leave the room. His eyes slid down to watch Sherlock’s butt sway as he walked. He licked his lips and turned around to make some tea.

 

He'd just finished pouring it into two mugs, watching the steam of Earl Grey curl sweetly around his face in wisps, when he felt Sherlock’s breath, hot, on the back of his neck. He smirked and turned around. Sherlock placed his hands on either side of John, pinning him where he was, with a broad smile on his face. He had a mischievous look in his eyes and he leaned forward, trapping John's lips in a kiss. He started to trail kisses across John's jaw so that they ended up at his ear.

 

"How about you go tell our son goodnight and we'll finish this when you get back?" he smirked. The smile lit up his pale face, sharpened his prominent cheekbones, and sparkled in his ever-changing eyes.

 

"A-alright." John said shakily. Sherlock stepped back to let John through, lightly smacking his butt as he left. John chuckled quietly to himself as he ran up to Hamish's room. He stepped up to his crib and took a minute just to watch his son sleep.

 

"Goodnight Hamish, my love." he whispered and bent down to kiss him lightly on his head. "Sweet dreams."

 

 _Now,_ he thought to himself, _to Sherlock._ His pace quickened and a small smile appeared on his lips. His smile broadened upon his return to the living room.

 

Sherlock sat in his chair drinking tea, his features graced with a calm air. He turned his head and John froze. His husband looked so beautiful. Sherlock’s head was framed by the firelight glowing from the hearth behind him. His dark curls glistened like obsidian in the sun, and his blue eyes were bright. _He's mine,_ John thought to himself. _That's my Sherlock._ Sherlock stood and stretched, his form-fitting shirt getting tighter around the seams as his chest rippled. John just about groaned out loud. Sherlock smirked, obviously enjoyed the tortured look of desire in John’s eyes, and took his time walking over to John. At last, John couldn’t stand a moment longer, and met Sherlock halfway. He put his arms around Sherlock’s neck and pulled him in violently for a kiss.

 

Sherlock chuckled a little. "In a rush are we?" he mumbled against John’s lips. He drew back, smirking at the doctor.

 

"Yes I am." John growled back and leaned in for another kiss. They kissed roughly, but Sherlock slowed the pace.

 

"We've got all night, love." he said into John’s skin. John smiled and moved to kiss Sherlock’s neck. He found his sensitive spot, sucked on it lightly. John smiled at Sherlock’s moan. He felt Sherlock’s knees buckle, and grinning devilishly, he moved his arms so that they're around his husband’s waist to support him. He teased the skin with his teeth; if he wasn't holding Sherlock, John is sure the consultant detective would fall to the ground.

 

He kissed from Sherlock’s throat to his ear, whispering huskily," I like you like this. I like it when you lose control in my arms." John smirked at Sherlock’s moan, louder this time.

 

"Shh, Hamish is sleeping." he whispered and grinned at Sherlock.

 

Sherlock stared back evenly, his breathing ragged. "Let's see how you handle it." he shot back, sounding almost experimental. The younger man leaned in, capturing John's lips, taking them captive with his own. The taller man ran his tongue along John's bottom lip. He smiled when his blogger opened his mouth obediently, Sherlock’s tongue invading the opening, exploring every inch. John groaned softly, Sherlock bringing his hand up to John's neck, keeping him in position. His other hand pulled out John’s shirt from his jeans, with the men separating quickly so John may finish its removal. Sherlock trailed his hands up and down the doctor’s chest, admiring his muscles. He was rewarded with a satisfied smirk in return.

 

"Why don't we go to the bedroom?" Trailing off, he took Sherlock’s hand and pulled it gently, leaving the shirt on the floor and the tea, now forgotten and cold, on the counter.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So much happens I don't even know how to explain it um.... 
> 
> "John, did you just put our baby on the floor?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OMG!!!11!!!! WOTS DIS? COULD IT BE??? AN UPDATE??? AFTER LIKE A YEAR?? (im sorryyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyy taking college level courses in ninth grade sucks up all your time. i mostly edited this over the summer, and recently found myself with some free time.) ANYWAYS I HOPE ANYONE WHO ACTUALLY READS THIS ENJOYS AND MAYBE SOON MORE WILL FOLLOW?

The next morning found them waking up in each other’s arms, comfortably nestled against the other’s warm chest. Eventually they rose, and began the start of their day to day routine.

 

"Jooooohn." Sherlock groaned as he sat in his chair, legs folded in an odd sort of way that looked more like a torture method than a thinking pose.

 

 

"What?" John's head popped out of the kitchen where he's feeding Hamish breakfast.

 

Sherlock was tucked up in the leather-backed chair, upside down, blood rushing to his milky white face and hair spilling onto the nearby floorboards as gravity pulled the locks down. John rolled his eyes.

 

 "His phone. I want it." The prompt voice stated, hidden command beneath the words. John sighed with a small smile on his face.

 

"Alright, one second." He returned to Hamish. "One more bite, alright? Here comes the airplane. Vrooooom." John guided the spoonful of baby food into his son’s open mouth. Hamish giggled, swallowing a spoonful of a mashed carrot and squash mixture.

 

"Is Papa funny?" John cooed. Hamish tittered again and John cracked a grin. "C'mon."

 

He hefted his son onto one hip and put the food away. They walked into the living room, his footsteps resounding in his ears as the only sound, since Sherlock was eerily silent as he pondered some great question of life, and his offspring regarded him with silent eyes. The blogger shook his head. _Too creepy_.  With a sigh, John discovered that Sherlock’s phone was on the table next to the stoic thinker. He picked it up and began to hand it to Sherlock, but Sherlock shook his head.

 

"Text Lestrade for me. I need a case." John rolled his blue eyes with a small smile hinted at on his lips.   


He tapped out, skifully with one hand and a child on his hip,  *Got any cases? JW*  


"Alright, I texted him." John sat on the sofa, setting the baby on his lap. He bounced his knee a little, making Hamish squeal with surprise. John beamed, and as he started to tickle Hamish, Sherlock glanced over, snapped out of his revelry and smiled. He moved over to sit next to John. John turned his head pecking a kiss upon sherlock’s cheek.

 

 "I love you." He said softly.

 

"I love you as well." Sherlock replied, putting an arm around john's shoulders. Sherlock's phone went off and they both looked at it for a moment, a beat of silence passing between them and the flashing screen. With another annoyed sigh, John reached over and picked it up.  


*Possibly...* Lestrade has responded.   


"Wonder what he means by that?" John presented sherlock with his phone.

 

"Let's find out." Sherlock lept up and went to put his coat and scarf on.

 

John grinned and followed, bundling up Hamish in a coat, a hat, and fluffy socks.

 

 "Don't want you catching a cold now." He murmured.

 

He set Hamish down and donned his own coat. "Well, let's go."

 

He picked Hamish up, the chubby little boy waving his hands in excitement as John pointed out everything they passed, constantly having a one sided conversation with his son, who responded by giving a somewhat toothy grin, and making sharp cries of joy. Occasionally, Sherlock would turn around and make some deduction to John and the baby. His clever statements, usually so brusque and precise, sounded odd in a high pitched tone close Hamish, with wide eyes and false excitement. _Baby talk_. Something Doctor Watson never would have expected from the man he had joined in union.

 

At the corner, Sherlock hailed a taxi.

 

"Scotland Yard." He told the cabbie and leaned back in his seat, looking out the window at the sun peeking through the cloudy grey sky. John covertly watched him with a look of adoration on his face. He turned his attention to Hamish and started to play with him to keep him amused. When they got to the Yard they stepped out of the cab and walked in. They're recognized immediately and nobody questioned them as they approached  Lestrade's office.

 

"So?" Sherlock asks as soon as they got inside. Lestrade looked up with a start from his papers and file folders with a sigh.

 

 "2 missing people, probably related. Turned up in 2 different abandoned locations; most likely murder. Here." He said and gave sherlock the file.

 

 "Oh, why, hello, Hamish. Happy late birthday." He added, turning back to his father, who is pensively examining the reports. "Well?"

 

"Definitely related, definitely homicides and I'm definitely interested." Sherlock pronounced quickly.

 

Lestrade visibly relaxed with an exhale of relief.  "Great, want to see the crime scenes? The bodies are still there, since we only found them a couple of hours ago. His team is still split up at both locations."

 

Sherlock paused and glanced at John and Hamish, waiting behind him quietly, prepared to follow him where ever he went. "Tomorrow. I have some matters to attend to today."

 

 "Oh, um alright." Lestrade's mouth fell open a little in shock. "Er, eight tomorrow then? Here's the address of the first crime scene." He handed sherlock a piece of paper with an address neatly printed on it in black type.

 

 "Excellent. Meet you there." He pronounced, satisfied. Sherlock grabbed John's arm gently. "Come on darling, let's go."

 

John followed, as usual, puzzling over why sherlock turned down the case. What could _possibly_ be more important than a case? And, to John's knowledge, sherlock wasn't doing anything today- he was just complaining about his utter boredom!

 

They exited the Yard, stepping across the crunching gravel walkway, then the freshly mown green lawn. John decided to get to the bottom of the out of character display Sherlock is pursuing.

 

 "Sherlock, what-" He's cut off as sherlock kissed him gently, but firmly.

 

 "You, his love." He had already deduced what John was going to ask.

 

John felt his heart flutter softly as he lowered Hamish to the grass. His son latched onto the hem of his other father’s trench coat, using it to stand on wobbly legs. They both watched him for a moment, assuring that he was steady enough that he would not fall, before John raised himself up again and met Sherlock’s eyes.

 

 "But...you never turn down a case..." John proclaimed with the puzzled look plastered on his face.

He responded with an air of rationality. "I'm not turning down a case, just putting it off." John smiled a little. "You're more important to me John.” He went on. “ _You_ _and_ _Hamish_ are his work. It’s his job to be there for you, both of you."

 

"Alright." John said softly. The phrase from long ago, “ _I am married to his work,”_ ran through his head. Sherlock had meant that his work consumed his life, and he had no time for relationships, but by saying that his husband and child were his responsibility, his “work”, he’d meant that they were his life. John felt light on his feet. Sometimes, Sherlock could still astound him with these sudden emissions of love and feeling.  Let's go home then."

 

Sherlock hailed another taxi, and it seemed to take forever to get home. When they finally reached the flat, John paid the cabbie while sherlock unlocked the door. John kissed hamish's head and walked inside 221B. Suddenly overcome with emotion at the fact that Sherlock put a case on hold for him, he put Hamish on the floor gently and backed a scarf and coat removing Sherlock up against the wall. His hands went to Sherlock’s lithe waist and his lips found Sherlock’s. He kissed him roughly, his tongue forcing his way into Sherlock’s mouth. Sherlock groans a little and then started to laugh quietly. He smirked and pushed John back gently.

 

"John, did you just put our baby on the ground?"

 

John smiled sheepishly and looked down at Hamish, seeming to have become interesting in the lint under the sofa, and tasting it.

 

"Uh, maybe, yeah."

 

Sherlock chuckled and picked Hamish up, pulling the dustball form his hands and tossing it back onto the floor. "Let's go to your room. You look very sleepy Hamish."

 

 He kissed Hamish’s head and laid his head on his chest. Sherlock walked up the steps and John smiled to himself and follows them. Sherlock entered Hamish’s room and layed him down in his crib. It is a tall crib, carved from wood with antique flourishes, and painted white. It held his insufferable brother, and later him. Now it holds his son as his softly baby blue eyes drift shut contentedly.  

 

"Sweet dreams Hamish." He whispered. When he walked back into the living room he froze. John was lying on the sofa, but his shirt is on the floor. His eyes were closed and he looked so peaceful, so beautiful. Sherlock removed his leather shoes quietly and walked over to the sofa. He stared down at John, memorizing the way his face looked. John slowly opened his eyes and smiled up at Sherlock. He stretched as he sat up and his smile widened when Sherlock took the spot next to him. Sherlock fixed him with a devilish stare and mumbled, "Where were we?"

He turned and attached his lips to John's neck, sucking lightly. John whimpered softly felt Sherlock smirk against his neck. The consultant detective leaned back slowly, pulling John with him, so that John was on top of him. Sherlock twisted and they ended up side by side. John circled Sherlock in his arms, his husband doing the same. One of Sherlock’s hands lazily drew circles into John's back. John smiled and closed his eyes. Sherlock moved his head forward and kissed John's nose.

 

 "How about we just lay here love? This is pleasant." Sherlock murmured.

 

"Yes, it is quite nice." John answered. Hamish’s cry carried down to the living roon and Sherlock heaved a regretful sigh, saddened at the thought of breaking their warm embrace, though he knows their son needs him. "I'll go. You stay here."

 

John shivered slightly when Sherlock left, suddenly cold. He heard Sherlock walk away and then it's quiet. John’s thoughts wandered subconsciously to those awful years when Sherlock was gone; when he was "dead". The flat was quiet, just like it was then. He was alone, just like now. He often slept on the couch, just like he now does. Similarly, it used to be so cold all the time. A feeling of dread came over him and he panicked, forgetting that Sherlock was there, he's just in Hamish’s room. The last thought that ran through his mind before he asleep consumed was that he's alone again.

 

When Sherlock returned later he frowned at the sight before him. John was shivering and muttering in his sleep. He lied down next to him and pulled his doctor close. John didn’t wake up but he did curl in closer to Sherlock and he whimpered in his sleep, his body craving Sherlock’s touch. Sherlock's frown deepened and he held John tightly, not wanting to wake him, but quite concerned. Meanwhile, John's dream took a violent turn.  


_John was making tea when his phone rang. He picked it up._

_"Hello?"_

_"John." It's Lestrade. "Come quick. Something's happened."_

_Terror washed over him and he knew immediately that Hamish and Sherlock are involved. "On his way."_

_He sprinted out of the door and into a cab. The atmosphere is swirling and tilted in his dreamlike state and he swerves, seeming to be off balance. His head spun as suddenly the dream fast-forwarded and he's in the middle of a forest. He's running, looking anxiously for Sherlock and Hamish. If he couldn’t find them soon he knew they would die. His breathing was ragged and he's gasping for air. He tripped over a tree root and fell to the ground, hard. With a groan he stood, starting to run again, his eyes scanning the woods he's in for a sign; anything. He knew he could not give up on them._

_In the distance, he saw an old-looking cottage, with wooden walls and a thatch roof. He abruptly found the door to his right and he just knew that they were in there. He turned and started to run through the house like it's his life in danger. The door is slipping farther and farther away and when he opened it at last, he heard a man laughing and Sherlock’s voice pleading, "Don’t shoot."_

_There's more laughter and then a gunshot rang out. He heard a thud from above him and then the sickening sound of tape being ripped off of something, or someone. His heart lurched with dread as Hamish started to scream and cry. Something wet was coating his hand and he peered down at the appendange. Blood. Turning his face up to the ceiling, he realized that Sherlock’s blood was dripping through the floorboards, deep red. He wanted to move but he couldn’t; he's frozen. His legs were fixed to the ground in an unmoviable paralysis and his heart was bounding so loudly he thought it would burst from his chest. Another gunshot cut the silence in the still first floor like a blade and the crying stops._

_"No!" He jerked into motion, dashing up the stairs two at a time. **Come on, Watson**. He urged himself. **They** **need** **you** , **this** **is** **it**.  Even the voice in his head sounded dismal and let down. It had lost all hope and was letting go. Even the voice in his head tried feeding him a last feeble lie. He stopped short when he saw Sherlock and Hamish lying in a pool of blood, their blood, on the hard oak floor in front of him. They're still and deathly pale, no sound coming from either of them. _

_He knew deep down that they were dead, but he didn’t want to believe it. **Maybe the voice could lie one last time like the lies of Reichenbach, and the lies would again come true. Death would keep them safe, fake death. It had been Sherlock’s method to keep him safe from the clutches of Moriarty, and it would succeed again. They would be fine.**_

_"No... No, no, no!" He choked back a sob and ran over to the dead bodies of his husband and son. The doctor knelt down next to them on his knees, not caring that his clothes were getting soaked with their blood. "No, no please no!"_

_The tears were running freely down his cheeks and he couldn’t focus on anything. All he saw was the blood, everywhere; the blood of family, the two people that mattered to him more than anything, gone. The blood that was on his clothes and dripping through the floor. The only coherent thought he had was that he's alone again. He turned to discover the gun lying on the floor beside him, like an omen. This was a sign of his next move. It was was had to be done. He retrieved it, feeling its slick barrel, and its heavy weight, heavy as the weight bearing down on his inconsolable heart. The ex-arhis doctor took a deep breath to calm himself. There's no point in living now. They will not be parted again. Expertly cocking the gun, he slowly brought it up to his temple. Then, the last thing John Watson remembered were the eyes of his husband as he squeezed the trigger with a resounding, final bang._   


"Sherlock!" John shouted as he woke up, gasping for breath. His chest and face were shining with sweat. He couldn’t stop trembling and he was deahtly pale. He looked as though his entire world was crashing down around him.

 

 "John! John, calm down, love. Please. I'm right here." Sherlock grabbed John and drew him close, into the comforting warmth of his chest. Tears were streaming down John’s face.

 

"Shh, I'm here. Shh." John shifted towards him, and the intense look of pain on his face broke Sherlock’s heart. His eyes were red, and tears tracked small, damp lines down his cheeks. His face was long, and his body was racked with gentle tremors, so faint they were almost unnoticeable if you weren’t holding the man. Sherlock could see this had been no ordinary flashback to his days a soldier.

 

"I've been trying to wake you up for the past ten minutes..." Sherlock said quietly. The tears slowed but didn’t stop. "Come here."

 

Sherlock put a hand on John's head and gently brought it up to rest on his shoulder. He slid his palm across John's back soothingly.

 

"Shh. It was just a dream."

 

Sherlock recalled how John used to hallucinate five years ago.

 

"Hey. Look at me." He made John meet his eye. "You’re alright. I’ve got you. I'm here." He said softly.

 

"Oh, Sherlock." John collapsed against him, seeming to fall in on himself, and the sobbing started again.

 

 The trembling was almost finished, and now he's just shivering from the chill. Sherlock held John and waited patiently, gaze never leaving his husband’s. When his crying was reduced to sniffles and a few stray tears, Sherlock murmured,

 

"Want to talk about it?"

 

John nodded and took a deep breath.

 

 "It- it started with a phone call from Lestrade. He said something happened and I knew he was talking about you and Hamish. Then I was in some forest looking for you two. If I didn't find you in time, you were going to die. I was running and I found this house. I opened the door and I heard you pleading for your life and there was a...a gunshot.” John was breathing heavily, starting to panic as he recalled his dream, and started to ramble on more quickly.  “

 

Then I heard a thud and the sound of tape being ripped off of something- I think Hamish’s mouth- and then Hamish started to cry and your blood was dripping through the floorboards and I was frozen and then I heard a-another gunshot and it was deathly quiet and then when I ran upstairs I-I saw you two in a pool of blood, your blood, and I was alone again. I saw the gun so I picked it up and-and I shot hisself. I wasn't about to be alone again..." John whispered the last bit and took a deep breath. Sherlock's heart felt like it was being torn in two.

 

 "John, you aren't alone. It was just a dream. You have me and Hamish. I won't ever leave you again." Sherlock kissed John fiercely on his lips. John moaned and deepened the kiss. Sherlock sucked John's tongue lightly, moving down his jaw to the sweet spot on his neck. He kissed the skin, teasing it with his tongue and his teeth. John moaned again, momentarily distracted from his pain, and gripped Sherlock harder. Sherlock smiled against his neck.

 

"Sh-Sherlock." John gasped out. "I love you. S-so much."

 

"I know John." Sherlock murmured. "I love you too." Sherlock leaned back and he kissed John's nose lightly. "I'll always be here love."

 

"Thank you." John whispered and he leaned forward, nuzzling his head in Sherlock’s neck, breathing in his comforting scent. His body relaxed and Sherlock smiled. He started to rub John's back soothingly with one hand and the other massaged John's neck. They stayed like this, content to be in the other’s company and no words are needed.

 

 

“Thank you Sherlock. For…everything.” John choked out finally, his trembling mostly over. “I love you so much.” John kissed him again, hoping Sherlock understood that he still needed to know that Sherlock was there, and that he was not dreaming. John put a hand to Sherlock’s hair as he normally did and felt the tension leave his body as he relaxed, realizing he’s not dreaming.

 

“Think nothing of it. I’m here, John. Right here; look at me.” Sherlock said, and took hold of his face, looking into John eyes. “You see me, yes? You know you aren’t dreaming, or hallucinating right?” he asked gently, remembering how John saw things that were not there during those three years he thought Sherlock had been dead.

 

“I…I-I think I know that...” John said, not too sure of himself. “I want to believe it…but, I just don't know.”  A lone tear slipped out of John’s eye, and he whispered again, “I just don't know.”

 

Sherlock slowly spoke, his voice urgent and pleading. “Listen to me, John. I’m real, I’m right here. You aren’t imagining things. I came home five years ago, and we’ve been together for two years now. We have a little son named Hamish. This is real, John. It’s not your imagination.” He kissed John lightly.

 

“Okay,” John murmured. “Okay, I believe you.”

 

He tightened his hold on Sherlock’s head and ran his fingers through his husband’s already messy curls. Sherlock nuzzled his face into John’s neck and they sat holding each other on the couch for a long time, until Hamish started to cry.

 

John gasped, “Hamish!”  He immediately got up, going into "parent mode". He walked into his son’s room and picked him up, rocking him slightly. “It's okay, Papa’s got you. Papa’s got you...” John whispered, hugging the baby close to his body.

 

Sherlock followed after John, and once inside the nursery, wrapped his arms around John’s waist. “See? Hamish is alright, love.” Sherlock consoled John, as Hamish quieted down and fell asleep in his arms. John sighed, and leaned into his embrace, smiling.

 

“Yes, he is.” The doctor agreed.

 

Sherlock kissed the top of John’s head. “Feeling better?” the detective inquired.

 

“Yes, much better.” John replied as he moved to returned Hamish to his crib, and then returned to wrap his arms around the consultant detective, resting his blond head against the crook of his neck.

 

Sherlock murmured, “Good.” And the two lovers stood in each others’ arms, looking into the large bay window over their sleeping son as the sun rose.

 

“It's so beautiful, Sherlock.” John commented, breaking their contented silence.

 

“Just as you are.” Sherlock smiled down at his husband. He peered at the clock. “We’ve got two hours before were supposed to meet Lestrade. What do you want to do in that time?” he asked with a sly grin.

 

“Hmm,” John said, pretending to be deep in thought. “We could…” He did not complete his sentence, leaning up to kiss Sherlock, pulling him backwards into the living room. Sherlock swiftly sat him down, and began to kiss his doctor on every centimeter of his body.  

 

“Brilliant idea, John.”

 

Taking a moment to respond, John merely replied, “Thanks.” before grabbing the man’s thick hair in his hands to pull his face closer, and pressed his soft lips lightly to Sherlock’s forehead. He lied his head down on Sherlock’s chest, inhaling his scent. He smelled of spicy cologne, and mint leaves and smoke. John listened to his heart beat, feeling oddly comforted by the reassurance that Sherlock was human, here, and so very much alive. The dark-haired man stroked the good doctor’s head, taking solace in the sound of his slow breathing. He cherished every inhale and exhale, every rise of his chest, which meant that the doctor had chosen to give him one more moment of his life. Watson sighed in content, turning his face up to his lover’s, cupping his cheek in his hand. He pressed their lips together softly, enjoying the feel of warm lips against his own.

 

“I love you Sherlock,” He said, overcome by emotion, voice cracking. “I love you so much.”

 

The sociopath returned the kiss, with a mumbled, "Love...you....too." into John’s lips before going back to kissing him ravenously. The blogger chuckled against his lover’s lips, rubbing his thumb against his cheek in swooping strokes over the sharp bones beneath.

 

With one last desperate kiss, Sherlock opened his eyes and glanced over at the clock above the telly. He gasped out, “John, I honestly couldn’t get enough of you...but it’s almost eight, and we’ve got to meet Lestrade.”

 

 He pecked his lips one last time before helping John to his feet and buttoning his shirt again in seconds. He pronounced, “I think we should see if Mrs. Hudson can baby sit. I don’t want to wake Hamish this early to bring him.”

 

John nodded in agreement, lips swollen and hair disheveled, as Sherlock teasingly brought his face very close once more, staring longingly into John’s eyes a minute before suddenly kissing his nose. John groaned softly in protest, wrinkling his nose in an annoyed manner. The detective ran downstairs quickly to ask her, laughing at the look of surprise on his husband’s face. Still, John grinned at the memory of the other man’s lips on his. He brushed the pad of his index finger over them lightly; if he closed his eyes he could still feel their warmth and pressure as he smiled against John’s skin. He opened them and called down the stairs, “Yes, if she could babysit that would be lovely!”

 

 He shuffled into the bathroom to take a quick shower as Sherlock spoke with Mrs. Hudson. When he reemerged, scrubbed brightly clean, and in a fresh jumper, he approached Sherlock, who was pacing around the living room of the flat without the lights on, even though it had grown dark while his husband showered.  “Ready?”

 

Lost in thought, he did not respond for a moment. Then he suddenly seemed to register the question and fixed his sharp gaze on John. He nodded, once, bobbing his head curtly, the curls quivering just a little, like John’s heart.

 

“She’ll come up in a minute. Did you shower?” He added out of the blue. John was used to it; almost everything involving Sherlock was out of the blue. He leaned in, breathing in the scent at the crook of John’s neck deeply. John rolled his eyes and allowed this strange action…he didn’t mind all that much anyhow.

 

“You smell nice...” He pronounced with a soft pink blush. “I quite like it.” He suddenly wrapped his arms around John and hugged him tightly to his chest.

 

John laughed heartily, pressed up against the soft fabric of Sherlock’s dress shirt. “Yes I did shower; and thanks.” He said, hugging Sherlock back just as tightly, rubbing his wet hair on the detective’s neck with a smirk.

 

“John?” The sociopath whispered, his voice almost childlike and tinged with unease. “Sometimes...I worry about you. And-and I feel like I couldn’t do anything to help you...I just want you to know that you can always talk to me. Tell me anything...anything you need to!” He said, tripping over his words rapidly, and stumbling occasionally, as though at a loss for the right thing to say; as if he didn’t know exactly _how_ to say what he wanted to express. He drew back and gazed down at the doctor, grey eyes clouded over with love. “Alright?”

 

John flicked his eyes up to look at Sherlock, brow furrowing in confusion. Why had he brought this up? He pressed his lips together, forming a thin, white line across his face as he drew up the proper response. Sherlock had caught him off guard with this sudden emission of feelings. He knew that Sherlock had them, and sometimes even felt them for those he loved, but he didn’t confess them. If Sherlock Holmes wanted them known, he showed them through actions, like kisses, or facial expressions that did not match his snide comments, or even faking his death to save the lives of his friends…the one he was in love with in particular.

 

            “I know that Sherlock,” John finally responded, his tongue darting out to wet his lips, and noticing the love shining in Sherlock’s eyes they cracked a smile. “You have helped me more than you know.” He looked down at his brown trainers. “I don't know what I’d be doing if it wasn't for you…probably something stupid. You saved me, Sherlock, you truly saved me from hisself and made his life worth living again. I trust you completely and I want you to know that I will always be here for you, too.” He stood up on tip-toe to gently brush his lips across Sherlock’s temple. “Thank you, for telling me how you felt. I’m glad I know, b-but I’m alright. I promise.”

 

 Sherlock immediately registered the signs that John was lying to him. He wouldn’t meet his gaze, and his fingers twitched with every word he said. Sherlock knew that whatever was wrong, he’d tell him in his own time, and so despite the sting in his heart that John could not be honest with him yet, he decided not to push it. Luckily, Sherlock was a much better liar than John; or rather, he was better at hiding the signs of his lies. His fingers touched his doctor’s face lightly.

 

“I’m sorry. I don’t know why I brought this up. I just couldn’t get the look of pain on your face this morning when I woke you up out of his mind...and felt like there was something you weren’t telling me...and I’m normally not wrong at deducing things...so I just wanted to let you know that you don’t have to be afraid to tell me _anything_. I felt like I had to tell you before we left. I don’t know why John...” He finished in a small voice with a sigh. He placed a kiss to the sandy top of his husband’s head, nose squashing against the crow of his hair.

 

Mrs. Hudson walked in presently from downstairs, dressed in her purple skirt and jacket set, with a ruffled pink blouse and layered necklaces beneath. She smelled of Chanel No. 5, as she was, despite her past, a lady with class. “Oh! Hello, boys; hope I’m not interrupting…anything.”

 

“No. That’s alright. We were just leaving.” Sherlock removed his arms from the shorter man and they hurried down the stairs, John a tad embarrassed, as he thanked her for watching Hamish, and then turned back to Sherlock to speak. They stood on the street now, both clad in coats. Sherlock stood outside of Speedy’s, tucking his scarf “just so” around his neck.

 

“Sherlock...” John said, mustering up the courage to put this out in the open. “There is something, actually... I'm...I'm afraid to lose you. I'm afraid that one day you will wake up and realize what a loser I am, and leave. I'm not smart, I don't help on cases…I'm just a broken, old soldier who has nowhere else to go,” His voice cracked. “And I used to wonder if his life was even worth living, especially after you…fell. I didn't know what to do with hisself, because you were the only thing that made me feel like I had any reason to live again.” Blinking back tears, he continued. “All of his nightmares involve losing you. That's his deepest and darkest fear, especially after the fall.” A tear slipped out as everything came rushing back to him.

 

“STOP IT!” Sherlock said, angry. “I will _not_ just sit here and let you abuse yourself like that! I love you too much to hear those words spoken with your name, let alone by you!” Sherlock looked at the man beside him with raw eyes. “You aren’t a loser, John. You’re brilliant to talk to on cases, you’re quite intelligent and if you’re broken then I will help to fix you...and I’m never going to leave you. I swear I couldn’t if I wanted to, because every moment without you is like another three years after the fall.” He took John’s rough hand in his own and gripped it tightly. “I’m glad you told me this. Thank you, John. I’m happy you told me, because it hurts me to know you’ve kept this from me, and that it’s been eating at you. I’m sorry I didn’t notice this sooner, sometimes I get blindsided by how…wonderful you are. I wake up every morning next to you and wonder why I got so lucky. I love you more than anything, John, and nothing will ever change that, darling.”

 

John had to tilt his head up to meet Sherlock’s eye, sort of smiling through the stray tears that were still slipping out of his eyes. “Oh, Sherlock, you’re wrong. I'm the lucky one. And, thanks for saying all this...it helps. I'm sorry I didn't tell you earlier, I should've. ‘Suppose I was scared of your response, your actions. I don't know why I doubted you, love, but I'm sorry. I love you, Sherlock, ‘till the end of his days.”  He said, wrapping his warm arms around the taller man tightly, not caring that they were on the edge of the cracked sidewalk in view of everyone passing by to gawk at the quite famous detective.

 

“God, I'm like a hormonal teenage girl.” He said jovially, laughing a little. “I don't know why I’m acting this way...with all these insecurities and what not.”  His tone had changed, still light and sarcastic, but the sound of his own embarrassment at the sudden display of self doubt crept through his words. He peered up at Sherlock with a smirk, not releasing him.

 

 Sherlock held him so close they could feel their rising body heat through their coats, pressed together, stroked his face with one pale hand.

  “It’s alright John...I’m not upset. I’m just so heartbroken to see you this morose.” With his thumb, he wiped away his soft tears. “Don’t cry, his darling. To see you cry is to feel his own heart weep.”

He took a step back, eyes dry but soul raw. “Please never keep anything from me, and I shall always be honest with you. I don’t want you to be scared to tell me anything, because I will always care for you. Losing you...would be like ripping his heart out and watching hisself die, or worse, even, because you mean more to me that his own life...and I’ll always love you.”  He tugged John closer by his waist and tipped his head back to kiss him, not caring who had their nighttime walk interrupted by their public display of affection, or which crazy fangirls were taking conspiracy photos to “Instagram”…or something.  

 

            “I won't keep anything from you from now on. I promise you.”  John said softly when they broke apart, meeting his eyes, getting lost in the colours and almost forgetting what he was going to say.  “I will love you always.”

 

“Likewise.” Sherlock mumbled huskily. He abruptly took John’s hand, tugging him down the street again. John remembered, as Sherlock was wrapping an arm around his back, that his husband could only handle so much emotional confession before he grew lost and uncomfortable. The taller man placed the bloggers arm around his back with a satisfied grin, and said with a cocky air, much his usual self again, “To Lestrade then, eh love?”

 

            John shivered slightly at the sound of his voice and tightened his hand around his back. “Yes, to Lestrade.”

 

            After a while in a taxi, they arrived at the crime scene. Lestrade greeted them at the front gate to the house with a relieved smile. Quite frankly, he wasn’t sure if the mad detective would show up!

 

“Ah! Hello, Sherlock. John. This way,” he said, gesturing through the open gate, gloved hand still on the latch, turning around and walking into the old abandoned-looking house. It’s outside was brown, rotted wood with peeling paint, which appeared have once been white or some cream-coloured shade. There was an odd rubbish bin out front, sitting dejected and lone in the middle of the leaf-strewn yard, overflowing with various bits of trash. Still, the one can is not enough, and various processed snack wrappers and bottle litter the surrounding area. Clearly, though this place was abandoned, many knew of its secluded location, most likely teens looking for a place to hang out and smoke. This is apparent by the cigarette butts scattered over the front porch.

 

Lestrade added apologetically, “We hadn’t the time to clean up the scene yet, since we don’t know which bits could possibly be evidence.”

 

The shrubbery still clinging to life amidst the brown and brittle remains of plants once-living, is barely holding on to life, struggling; deprived of water and proper soil. The splintering porch creaks when the wind blows in heavier gusts, the light and old wood seeming to lean to the side, clutching at the grown to not blow away. It is a very unsettling sight, straight out of the horror films, to say the least. The Detective Inspector lead them inside and began to show them around, explaining to case to Sherlock, whose upper lip is piqued with interest, and John listened from behind, trying to take in everything so as to be of assistance.

 

“Almost all the victims were killed in this house- we found a bunch if blood in the living room area, and DNA confirms 4 different people were killed here- all of them on the missing persons list.”

 

 He led us into the living room with the body of one of the twins in it.  “Here you are, Sherlock. We can go to the place the other twin was killed after u finish up here.” He added, not wanting the sociopath angry with him.  The man lying there is thin and cold, skin pale with death and hair limp and lackluster, pressed against the flooring.

 

 Sherlock stared at the body for a fraction of a second before rattling off deductions, rapid-fire.  “Right! So, this is...twin two. Do we have a name on him yet, Lestrade?” He turned tp the man beside him, who looked utterly baffled and opened his mouth to answer before Sherlock dismissed his slowness with a wave of his hand and resumed deducing.

 

“Ahh, yes. Male, 35 years old...from Cambridge...was...a teacher by the looks of it. He’d been depressed for about three years judging on the state of his clothes and face. He was...sick. He was sick! He'd known he had cancer for about five months now!   He was dying of cancer, so why was he murdered?”

 

            Lestrade, struggling to write all this down piped up.  “I'm going to pretend I know what you’re talking about, and say I don't know. Maybe he owed someone money? Was involved in something dangerous gone wrong? Drugs? A gang?”

 

            Sherlock turned around to look at John as he heard him mutter, "Brilliant," under his breath. Noticing the blogger gazing at him in adoration, he smiled.  

 

“I don’t know. I’ll have to have a look at the other bodies...did any of the other people know the twins?” The consultant detective was striding through the house now, back to the front with Lestrade and John rushing behind him, trying to stay on his heels.  

 

“What do you mean by ‘other people’? I have a feeling all of the missing people knew each other. I think they were all in a club or something...and the other bodies, and pictures of them, are at the Yard.”

 

“Yes. Excellent, but are there any _confirmed_ relations?” Sherlock asked, before nodding his head at Lestrade’s shaken “no.” “Alright, show me the first twin.”

 

“Nothing’s been confirmed, yet.”  Holding open the front door for the two men, Lestrade exited the house behind them, breath fogging in the cold air as he spoke.  “The other twin was found at an also abandoned house a couple of miles away. Actually, all of the males were found at abandoned locations.” He unlocked his car and look at the boys over the hood.  “I assume you and John will meet me there?”

 

Sherlock stared at him for a moment, thinking about something else. “We’ll take a cab.” He nodded and called for John to follow him back out to the street. Watson could not be more happy to get out of that creepy location after his all too similar nightmare.

 

“And for god’s sake, Lestrade,” The taller man added over his shoulder. “GET SOMEONE CHECKING BACKGROUNDS ON THIS CASE!”

 

As they left, John praised his lover animatedly. “Sherlock, that was amazing. What you did in there, you'd think I'd be used to it now, but I'm not. It blows me away every time I see how brilliant you are.” He was smiling at the ground, a tad embrassed at having gotten so excited… _again_.

 

            Sherlock draped his arm across his shoulders and pulled him close. “Thank you.”

 

He got into the cab and offered John his hand to help him in. Once situated inside, he rubbed black gloved his hands together excitedly. It was good to see him excited about a case. “Let’s inspect this crime scene!”

 

            John politely informed the impatient cabby, waiting to begin the journey, of the address as Sherlock mumbled to himself about the case, theories and speculations, trying to puzzle out the answer before he even had all the information. John internally chuckled. _Show-off_. Also, his husband was mumbling something odd about rainboots…he never would understand Sherlock.

 

 John rolled his eyes affectionatley and grinned at the man beside him, tongue okjing out from beneath his teeth.   “Brilliant…I only wish I was a bigger help.”  He whispered to himself, knowing that the younger man wasn’t paying attention to him, and did not hear it.   

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> comment below! we looooove feedback, it makes us write more! plus, we still need some betas/brit-pickers if the ones we have cannot do it any more, if anyone's interested.

**Author's Note:**

> Next chapter to follow! 
> 
> PLEASE COMMENT


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